Gone Rogue
by Ellislash
Summary: Nick wasn't always who he is today. Origin story, OC? Written so that other stories make more sense. Coarse language, violence. The character of Nick belongs to Valve, but Mike is all mine.


I wrote this piece to solidify one of my interpretations of Nick's past. It might count as original content, not fanfic; but I think it's close enough to warrant being here, and it'll help put some stuff in my other stories into context.

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><p>It takes a special kind of shady to join the CIA in the first place. It takes a special kind of drive to get assigned to Gamma Cell at age 22. It takes a special kind of skill to hide a <em>second<em> false identity from your boss.

Jack Crisci, alias Mike Foxtrot, not yet known as Nicolas Fields, was that kind of special - and an ice-cold son of a bitch, to boot.

Mexico didn't agree with him, or maybe he didn't agree with it. He didn't agree with most people. Either way, he was melting under his dark brown latex disguise, and his naturally black hair absorbed heat like the tarred roof he was staked out on. He'd only been up there for ten minutes, and sunset was in fifteen, but he burned and sweated and silently cursed the world until dark. Only the consequences of going AWOL kept him up there. That, and the hot black metal of his Savage 109 prototype sniper. It promised a beautiful kill.

Half an hour to go.

He emptied the last of his hydration pack and set up his shot. The target would be right _there_, at a range of... let's see... 357 meters. No wind - perfect. Visual on seven windows from here. No good. Move over... two. Better. Can't shift anymore, so it'll have to be enough.

He hadn't gotten this assignment because the brass liked his attitude. He was here because he was the best. In four short years he'd perfected the art of government-sanctioned assassination; he was a deadly ghost with three dozen notches on his rifle. Figuratively. He would never damage its stealth-black finish.

The rest of Gamma Cell hated him. He knew, and he didn't care. He'd never trusted them in the first place. What he didn't know was just how well-placed his suspicion of Papa Tango was. She'd always made life hard for him, ever since he'd hit on her that one time, but she _never_ jeopardized a mission. They all knew exactly how deep _that_ pile of shit could get. Still, Mike always made sure he was prepared for the day when she finally threw him in it regardless.

With ten minutes to go he heard a crackle in his earpiece. Bravo Romeo had planted the bug, right on time. The static resolved into two voices, male, speaking rapid Spanish.

"_...doesn't __give__ a __fuck__ how __many __you__ lose, __get __more!_" Deep and harsh, authoritative. The target.

"_Forgive__ me,__ sir, __but __it's __too __dange-_"

"_Don't __give __me__ that __shit,__ we've __got __five__ hundred __street __rats__ and __they're __fucking __expendable.__ The __boss__ wants __guns, __he's __gonna__** get **__guns, __so __kill __whoever__ you__ have __to!_"

"_Y...__yessir._" A pause."_There's __one __more __thing, __a__ matter __of __security... __we've __heard __rumors __of __assassins..._"

"_Yeah,__ I __know__ that __already. __It's __taken__ care __of. __Now__ get __the __fuck__ out._"

Mike didn't twitch, but his blood ran cold. They couldn't know. Not even the individual members of the team knew the whole plan: Papa Tango and Bravo Romeo each didn't know the other was on this mission; Zulu Delta and Bravo Romeo had something going on that Mike didn't know the details of; Victor Victor was supposed to be in Tehran but was probably in Oaxaca too. Out of all of them, only Papa Tango knew that Mike was making a hit at all. So really, there was nothing to worry about.

But Mike had only survived this long because he made a habit of worrying about nothing. "Nothing" had a nasty tendency to become "something," usually something deadly. He ran through scenarios in his head, each with consequences more dire than the last, and drew up a contingency for each. A minute later his planning was interrupted by confirmation of the worst: the target was talking again, and someone else was with him. Someone who sounded familiar.

"_Okay, __gorgeous, __let's __go __somewhere__ fun._"

"_You __really __shouldn't __leave __until __your __man__ takes __the __motherfucker__ out..._" Mike felt cold rage as he recognized the woman's voice.

"_Don't __worry, __sweetheart, __he's __the__ best._"

"_So's__ our__ sniper!__ If __you__ walk __out __that __door-_" The sound of a slap.

"_Shut __up! __I'll __do__ what __I __please, __starting __with__** you**__! __Manuel, __call __the __den,__ have __it __ready __when __we __get __there._"

"_What __the - __let __go! __This __was__** not **__part __of __the __deal!_" Violent scuffle, incoherent shouts, handcuffs clinking. Two pairs of footsteps, one forced.

Mike's brain worked like lightning. PT had ratted them out. The cartel had sent someone to kill him. And the target was leaving the house four minutes early with a rogue agent...

Through the scope he saw the door open. Instantly he re-judged the wind, the distance, saw the two of them together and lined up _perfectly_...

"Red mist" isn't an exaggeration. Two heads just... _vaporized_, two lives stopped short: the agent and the drug lord, both taken with the same shot.

Quick as a viper Mike snatched up his gun and beat an emergency retreat, slipping from the roof like a shadow. He'd have done the same whether he was betrayed or not; but since he was, he didn't follow the planned route. Rendezvous was supposed to be ten klicks west of the city. Fuck that. He knew what would happen when the Agency got wind of this. The whole unit had had its cover blown, and now they were worse than useless: a danger to have around, a threat. And threats, he knew all too well, were eliminated.

It was time to disappear.

First, Mike had to get out of Oaxaca. He looked like he belonged, of course, and swaggered his way down several streets; but his gun wasn't the usual assault-rifle variant that gang members carried. It attracted attention. He wished he could ditch it somewhere, but leaving it lying around would be unbelievably stupid.

Instead he caught a thug in an alley, silently broke his neck, and took his AK-47. The dead man's shirt served to cover the sniper rifle, which Mike then slung onto his back. Re-armed, he emerged into the streets like he owned them. With the attitude of a cartel enforcer, he meandered generally northwards.

Before long he spotted his tail. An unassuming guy in shabby clothes was following him; casually, occasionally stopping to chat with this person or that one but never out of sight for long. Mike appraised his stalker: pretty good at trailing, but not great; he was powerfully built and hid it by slouching; the neck tattoo marked him as the dead kingpin's hitman; and he was carrying at least three guns. Altogether, a man to be avoided. Or disposed of.

Twice Mike tried to lure the man into dark alleys, but failed. He then spent at least an hour trying to shake him, which similarly proved impossible. The later it got, the fewer people were around, and the more he wanted to get the fuck out. Reluctantly he accepted that his shadow knew the city better, and wouldn't be fooled. That meant - Mike angrily gritted his teeth - he'd have to make a break for it, into more open country with less cover.

Fuck.

He resumed a northerly course, walking more purposefully this time. As buildings got farther apart he fingered the AK's trigger more and more fondly. He couldn't kill the bastard, not yet. There were still too many gang members around who'd riddle him with holes before he could say "lo siento." No, he had to get farther away.

Night had brought little relief from the oppressive heat. Mike wiped the sweat from his eyes as calmly as he could, and saw that he was finally nearing the edge of town. Beyond the last structures lay open terrain - and a clear shot at his back. Once the hitman was sure that his prey would not lead him to a bigger nest of spies, he'd definitely take that shot. Mike's thoughts raced. There _had_ to be a way out that didn't involve being horribly outnumbered.

He turned a corner, and nearly smiled. About two hundred meters past the final house, in a rocky field, sat a single SUV. It was clearly a cartel patrol. There would be two thugs in it, maximum.

Two in the car and one behind.

He'd take those odds.

Mike ducked down one last alley and broke into a jog. Then he made the last turn, left the city, and showed his tail a new definition of speed.

The Savage 109 slammed into his back with every step, and the sweat began to run afresh, but it didn't matter. He sprinted for his life, tacking left and right at random to foil the bullets that started to zing through the air. Mike breathed with the rhythm of survival, legs flexing like he'd trained them to, skin prickling with every near miss. They were firing from both sides, now; he was halfway there.

It was a crazy stroke of luck that saved his life. Purely by accident, one of the gunmen in the car managed to shoot the hitman who was chasing Mike across the dusty field. His agonized cry was the most beautiful music in the world, and suddenly hot lead death was flying from only one direction. Mike dove left and landed hard behind a rock. From cover he braced the AK against his shoulder and started to fight back.

Breathing hard, but not panting, Mike picked off the driver of the SUV that had just started to turn towards him. It stopped accelerating as the gunman in the passenger's seat frantically tried to get the driver's body off the steering wheel. His efforts made the drifting vehicle swerve wildly, and Mike used the opportunity to fire straight through the driver's side window. The SUV came to a stop, windshield intact, with two very dead thugs slumped over the dash. Mike still didn't smile, but the intense green eyes in his hard face glittered with satisfaction.

It took him a week to get to Mexicali. He held up gas stations when his cash ran out, and slept only in three-hour bursts, parked far off the road. He traded the SUV for a sturdy old hatchback in Culiacan, and when he neared the border he finally pulled off his latex disguise. It peeled away like actual human skin, revealing the rash he'd forced himself to ignore the entire time. Anticipating this, he'd swiped a huge bottle of aloe vera gel at his last stop. It soothed the throbbing itch, and two days later he approached Mexicali looking more or less like his old self. He'd even managed to shave.

One last wad of hundred-dollar bills got him across to the States. He could have flashed his ID, of course, but that would have been as bad as waving around a big flag that said "HERE I AM!" From now on, Mike Foxtrot was dead. He'd been killed in action, and would never be heard from again.

Nicolas Fields drove more or less straight north, to Death Valley National Park. He finally stopped in the tiny little backwater town of Shoshone, California, and pulled up to a small, weatherbeaten house. From under the pointy red hat of a forlorn garden gnome he produced a small key, which opened the padlock on the back door.

Nick's house was full of _stuff_. He had all the possessions of a normal person, and a few extra, but not in the normal places. Most of it was in boxes, either mail-ordered and never unpacked or just heaped into cardboard for convenience. There was an empty refrigerator running in the kitchen and a handful of lamps on timers scattered through the house. A convoluted mechanism turned the sink on and off randomly. All this was to maintain the illusion that someone lived there. At last, that someone had come home.

Relieved and exhausted, Nick stripped off his filthy travel clothes and took a shower for the first time in weeks. The hot water claimed him, scoured off the dirt and softened the hard edges of his face. It relaxed his tense muscles and glistened along the handful of scars that marred his skin. It washed away his old life - no more Mike Foxtrot, no more Gamma Cell, no more daily dances with death. Nick had never felt more drained, used up, or burnt out. He closed his eyes to the steam and let his mind relax, truly relax, for a single precious moment.

He slept until nightfall. When he woke up he ate some canned beans and protein bars, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a lightweight green t-shirt that matched his eyes. The clothes from Mexico went in the car along with every trace of his former identity. The engraved metal ID dissolved into a beaker of aqua regia, made from acids in his hidden collection of useful chemicals. With regret he dismantled his rifles and ruined the pieces with acid, too, before throwing them in with the clothes. Every piece of equipment, every document, every garment went into the car. Finally he descended to the basement and produced fifty pounds of high explosives, eight five-gallon tanks of gasoline, and a small blue motorcycle. Nick strapped the bike to the rear hatch and carelessly tossed the rest into the trunk.

He filled a backpack with cash, food, water, the ID and financial papers of "Nicolas Fields," and two pistols. One pair of black leather boots and a black-visor helmet later, he replaced the house key and got behind the wheel.

The car made a beautiful fireball when he jammed the accelerator and drove it over the cliff into Death Valley. Nick let himself admire its smoky glory, and said a final "good riddance" to everything that lay burning in the sand. Then, before the park rangers showed up, he straddled his bike and gunned it into the east.

The pre-dawn sky was pearly gray. Not a soul was visible for miles around. He was twenty-six without a care in the world, and Vegas wasn't going to know what hit it.


End file.
